Father and son
by sammygirl312
Summary: "We will find a way." Sam speaks the words, but isn't sure he believes them anymore. A new apocalypse, without Dean by his side... But he isn't alone. (post season 13 finale)


_**A/N:**_

 _ **Hey. So. It's been a while. Over a year. I am very sorry to all of those who followed my (unfinished) stories. I didn't lack ideas or projects, but I did lack time. I had to focus on real life, and I stopped all TV shows for a year. That was a challenge, but we all need those, right?**_ __ _ **Sooo, I just caught up on season 13, and absolutely loved it! This is just a little one-shot. I might do more of those in the future.**_

 _ **I definitely can't promise more regularity. I can promise, though, that I will finish the two stories I had ongoing, because I absolutely hate unfinished business. Maybe I won't be quick about it, but I will finish them.**_

 _ **There you go. This takes place right after the season finale, I hope you all enjoy it! Please review!**_

 **Father and son**

A soul-deep cold clenched its fingers around Sam's heart. It was still beating, though; he wished he could still feel thankfulness about that fact. But his own life had long since lost, to his eyes, its full appeal. He did not fight for himself. He fought for his brother. And his brother was, once more, gone. The blow tore him apart, from the inside out – the same gut-wrenching feeling he was all-too-familiar with.

Michael had his sword. Dean was locked in a prison of his own mind. They had a new apocalypse to stop. And Sam had no idea of how to do so. He forced himself to believe that he would, they would, as always, find a way – but the belief was hollow, artificial, devoid of meaning like words too often spoken. All that the Hunter truly felt, as the flapper of immaterial wings carried away the archangel, was a deep and unshakable lassitude. He was exhausted. For a moment, he felt ready to lie down and quietly await the end of their world.

But then, Jack breathed out:

"Sam…"

He blinked, and turned towards the boy, whose presence he had, for the briefest of despairing instants, almost forgotten. He met large, tearful, hurt, but somehow still innocent eyes – and emotion overwhelmed him. Beyond the blood, the hunched shoulders, the unsteadiness… he saw courage, he saw youth, and he saw love. He exhaled slowly, trying to let some of the tension seep out. Then, he crossed the distance between them, and gently wrapped his arms around Jack. The boy, repressing a sniffle, returned tightly the embrace, before pulling away, grimacing as he pressed a hand against the wound on his chest. Sam's throat clenched; still, he couldn't help but notice that the cold had ebbed away, if only a little.

"I'm so sorry," Jack croaked out, voice cracking on the last word.

Sam frowned. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

The nephilim fiercely blinked back tears. "If I hadn't—"

"Stop it," the Hunter cut him short. "Don't apologize. You were going to kill yourself to save me. I—" He struggled to find words. His own guilt momentarily choked him, but he swallowed it back. "I can't say anything but thank you, Jack."

Gaze, at first, full of disbelief, the boy finally formed a weak smile.

"What are we going to do?" he asked quietly. "Dean…"

The silence was heavy; Sam ignored the pain, the aching need for his big brother, and answered:

"We'll find a way. We always do." It didn't matter whether or not he believed it, as long as Jack did. And his nod seemed to indicate that. "But not now," Sam added with a sigh. "Now, we let the others know what happened. And then…" His eyes drifted into emptiness. He felt lost.

"Then, we go back home," Jack said.

Sam stared at him, and, in turn, the corner of his lips perked up. "Yeah. We go home."

Somehow, through all that had happened, his phone had remained in his pocket. The Hunter fished it out, and called Cass.

Home.

The word has a strange ring to it. Sam had never ceased looking for it, without ever being sure of what it meant. If home was a place, it was the Impala – destroyed and rebuilt, again and again. It was the old Winchester house – burnt down. It was the apartment he'd shared with Jessica – burnt down. It was Bobby's house – burnt down. Fire ate all. It hadn't yet consumed the bunker, but if the bunker was Sam Winchester's home, the Hunter didn't doubt that, one day, it would be destroyed. Because that was always the way it ended.

Home couldn't be just a place. Home was alive, had a beating heart. Home was Dean. Home was Bobby, Charlie, Jody and the girls, home was Jessica, Eileen, Amelia, home was all the corpses the Winchester brothers had left behind them. Home was condemned to be destroyed, swallowed up by emptiness. And yet, it was endlessly reborn.

Home was an illusion of safety, so strong that Sam was still ready to feel comforted by it. He knew it could not protect him or those he loved. He knew it could not last forever. But even so, he was always eager to rush back to it, and pretend. Home was the sweetest of lies, and the strongest of truths.

Sam awoke, at home, in his bed, nightmares raising him from a restless slumber. Even at home, he rarely slept well.

He knew sleep would not come back. Gazing at his alarm clock, he found the red numbers staring down at him: 03:00. He sighed. There was nothing he could do. The trip back home – Lucifer had teleported them hours away – had worn him out, and there was no way of knowing when he would get a chance to recover from their recent adventures. But when the nightmares came, there was no fighting them.

Sam slipped out of bed. Groggily rubbing his eyes as they adjusted to the light he had just turned on, he walked into the bathroom to drown his face in cold water. He dressed, and quietly left his room. On the sleepless nights, he never remained in it: he invariably seeked refuge in the library. The caress of old paper under his fingers had soothed him all his life, more efficiently than any alcohol.

Usually, tiptoeing through the maze-like corridors of the Men of Letters' bunker, Dean was the only person Sam avoided waking. And if he failed at that task, it didn't matter, because his brother understood. Now, though, most of the rooms were occupied. The Hunters from Apocalypse World were still banding together. They formed a close community, and weren't ready yet to move on. They more than deserved the rest, after all they had gone through. It had certainly been years since they'd slept on a mattress for more than two nights straight.

Walking past his mother's room, Sam fleetingly thought back to when she first arrived, and he heard her pacing through the bunker at night. Walking past Bobby's room, he remembered those times when Dad dropped them off at his old house; when five-year-old Sam snuck past their host's bedroom to slip into Dean's bed, because he'd had a nightmare.

He found his way with the torch from his phone. But, when he neared the library, it became useless. The light was turned on in the room. Someone was already there.

Reflexively paranoid, Sam entered cautiously. He soon relaxed. Jack, bent over an open book, looked up at him with surprise.

"Hello," he said.

"Hi." Sam pulled up a chair next to the boy.

"You're awake." The blood on his face was gone. Cass had healed his other injuries.

"So are you," the Hunter chuckled, sitting down.

Jack nodded sadly.

"Yes, I had a nightmare."

Sam felt a pang to his chest.

"So you have those, too," he mumbled.

"More and more," the nephilim confessed.

He didn't deserve this, the man thought. It was so terribly unfair, that a child had to be thrown into this life, without ever being offered a choice. Jack was strong, of course. He was mature, he understood what happened, and accepted it. Nevertheless, it was taking its toll on him. And he didn't deserve to carry this weight. If only Sam had protected him better, shielded him from some of those horrors… the kid wouldn't be kept awake by spectral threats.

One more thing for which he would never cease blaming himself…

"Do you have nightmares about Lucifer?" Jack asked.

"Sometimes," Sam admitted.

"He hurt you, didn't he?" the boy articulated. "More than Dean. You were in the Cage."

He wasn't looking at Sam. He kept his voice neutral, but couldn't hide the underlying emotion. Hurt? Guilt? The Hunter knew that what he said next would matter, and wanted to comfort Jack… but he couldn't lie to him.

"Yes. I was… and he did. And I haven't been the same since then."

Jack winced, and thought for a moment. "How could you… how can you even look at me?"

Sam squeezed his shoulder. "You're not him, Jack. You are not him."

"But I could've been," he insisted. "How could you really know?"

"I didn't…"

"So, even if you understood me, how could you bring yourself to help? To be patient, nice? After what my father did to you?"

"We are not our fathers, Jack. Don't ever blame yourself for what Lucifer did, for who he was. You are nothing like him."

He thought he saw some of the tension leave the nephilim's shoulders, so he carried on.

"I couldn't know then, but I know now. You have changed our lives for the better. Taking you in was one of the best decisions we ever made."

The boy finally met his eyes, and Sam couldn't help the next words that escaped his mouth – because, he realized, they were deeply true.

"Sometimes, Jack, I wish you were _my_ son. Because I'm damn proud of you."

A tear fell down Jack's cheek. He all but jumped into Sam's arms; the Hunter rubbed soothing circles against his back. The nephilim's voice shook with emotion, when he said:

"Sometimes I wish you were my father, too."

As they pulled apart, Sam's grin was genuine.

"We're a strange family," he conceded, "but all together, we can save Dean. We can beat Michael. We will find a way."

Not only did Jack believe that promise; Sam found that he did, too. And faith could do a lot.


End file.
